


Draco Malfoy and the New Beginning

by emma_cellist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Adoption, Draco adopted by the Weasleys, Draco is a Weasley, Draco is abused, Family, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen, Love, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-11-23 19:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_cellist/pseuds/emma_cellist
Summary: Draco's parents die in an alternate twist of events, and the nine-year-old is adopted by the Weasleys. This story follows Draco's experience at Hogwarts as Hermione's friend, Ron's brother, and Harry's, well, who knows where that relationship is heading? Draco deals with teen angst, abuse, not belonging, romantic feelings for his best friend, and, of course, Voldemort's attempts to return to power.**** ON HIATUS ****





	1. In Which Draco's Rather Nasty Upbringing is Revealed.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Clearly, the Harry Potter universe does not belong to me (no matter how much I wish it did).
> 
> Public Service Announcement: the Drarry comes later, it's not an immediate thing. It'll build over time :)
> 
> Also, if abuse fics are your thang and you're disappointed by the lack thereof in this, just know Draco will have unpleasant flashbacks, etc. at Hogwarts & will bond with Harry over that.

"Father?" Draco stared at his father, eyes wide. 

Lucius Malfoy lay, motionless, on the carpeted floor of the Manor. One hand was dismembered, flung into the corner of the room, and a livid gash ran across the length of the man's face.

"Mother! Mother, come quickly!" The Malfoy heir waited with bated breath for his mother's hurried footsteps, but they never came.

Draco sank to the ground, overcome with grief. 

deadmumdaddeadmumdaddeadmumdaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead

The ground dropped from under him, and he awoke with a jerk, whimpers escaping from his lips.

"Shh, Draco, it's alright." Mrs Weasley caressed his forehead. "I'm here. Do you want to tell me about it?"

"My p-parents," he choked out. Ron was beginning to stir in the bed across the room.

"Again? Oh, sweetie." Mrs Weasley pulled him upright, rubbing his back. "I'm here now. I know it's not the same, but I'll look after you, Draco. You have my word."

Poor boy, she thought to herself sadly. It had been, what, three weeks since his parents were killed by a notorious murderer in the Muggle world, and Draco had been having the same dream every night. And every night, Mrs Weasley told him the same thing. But did he believe her?

"Mum?" Ron moaned.

"Back to sleep, Ronald. Goodnight, Draco."

"G'night, Mrs Weasley," he murmured sleepily.

"It's high time you called me Molly, love."

"G'night, Molly."

Mrs Weasley closed the door, a sad smile playing across her lips. She loved the boy; had since the moment Dumbledore turned up on her doorstep, the distraught nine-year-old in his arms. Her boys had been slow to warm up to the blond, but Ginny and Draco had formed a close friendship, and Ron had soon followed suit. It had been less than a month, yet the matriarch couldn't imagine life without him.

* * * *

Sunday dawned bright and clear. Charlie and Percy were up at first light, shoving forgotten items into their trunks and wolfing down a massive breakfast. The twins, of course, overslept, and were roused by Mrs Weasley's exasperated yells.

"Fred! George! Up, NOW!"

They lifted their heads sleepily, grinning at each other from opposite sides of the room, until a sudden realisation hit them. 

"Hogwarts," George spluttered.

"Late!" Fred choked out.

They leapt out of bed, a sinking feeling at the pits of their stomachs.

"George?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you-"

"Packed? Oh, Merlin!"

The twins began haphazardly shoving things into trunks; spellbooks and odd socks flying through the air. 

"Honestly," came Percy's voice from the doorway. "I know you're first years" (with an air of superiority) "but one would think... Oh, never mind."

Fred glared at his older brother. "Are you just going to stand there and watch, or are you going to help?"

Percy smirked. "I think I'll stand and watch for just a little longer, Freddie, dear."

The twins' cheeks blazed the distinctive Weasley red, anger threatening to spill out, as Percy looked on condescendingly.

"C'mon, Perce. Surely there must be a packing spell?" 

With a resigned sigh, Percy waved his wand and muttered a command under his breath. Belongings immediately began to fold themselves neatly and come to rest in the boys' battered trunks.

"Boys!" Mrs Weasley roared. "Downstairs, now!"

Three pairs of feet clattered down the narrow staircase, trunks and robes in tow. Ginny, Draco, Ron and Bill sat, bleary-eyed, at the cherrywood dining table, plates heaped with bacon, toast and sausages before them. When they caught sight of the twins, Ron choked on his cereal.

"What?" said George defensively.

"Get dressed in the dark?" Ron forced out, Draco thumping him on the back.

The pair looked down at themselves in dismay. Fred was wearing a bright purple sock and an ankle length, spotty one, paired with shorts and an oversize, inside out, red jumper, knitted, no doubt, by his mother, while George was adorned in a pair of Ginny's frilly socks and ill-fitting overalls.

"We were in a hurry, ok?" Fred said, and they made to go upstairs.

"No time to change now," Mrs Weasley said, stifling a smile at the sight of her sons.

"But-"

"We'll be the-"

"Laughing stock-"

"Of the school!"

"I'm sorry, but if we don't leave now, we'll miss the train! You'll be in your robes soon enough anyway."

"Fine." The twins exchanged woeful glances.

* * * *

"Write to us!" Mrs Weasley called over the bustle of Platform 9 3/4. Draco, Ginny and Ron were clutched to her sides.

"We will, Mum," Fred and George said, ignoring the laughs directed at their apparel.

"I love you, boys," she said, fixing a stray hair across Fred's face.

"Mum!" he squirmed, "I'm too old for this!"

"Oh, of course," she said sadly, "bye now, loves. Have fun, and be good."

The Hogwarts Express whistled, and the children swarmed inside its scarlet belly. The remainders of the family waved furiously, and a single tear slipped from Mrs Weasley's eye. Her children were growing up too fast.

* * * *

Back at the Burrow, Draco and Ginny were happily playing wizard chess - although they didn't have much of a grasp on the rules, and the chess pieces would pipe up every few seconds to insult them - and Ron was lying on his stomach, reading a comic. Mrs Weasley was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping lukewarm tea and watching her children play. Nostalgia surfaced every once in a while, and she desperately missed the days before Hogwarts, when all the kids were home and the Burrow was full of noise. Her heart ached; watching her babies grow up and leave home was a much more emotionally taxing task than she'd ever imagined.

A loud crash pulled the woman out of her musings, and she hurried over to Draco and Ginny. They had managed to pull one of the cluttered shelves down, and it had narrowly missed them. Draco stood, stiff as a board, against the wall, hands clenched tightly into fists.

"Carelessness! You could have been killed!" Mrs Weasley squawked. "How could you!" 

Draco flinched, eyes wide and terrified. "I'm so sorry, Mrs Weasley." He dropped to his knees and hurriedly gathered up shards of glass, exhaling sharply when one nicked his finger but continuing none the less, blood spattering the carpet.

Mrs Weasley muttered something under her breath and Draco's wound closed over. "That's enough of that, Draco. I'll do that," she reprimanded. "Now, explain to me what happened."

Ginny pouted. "It's Draco's fault, Mum. I didn't do anything."

"Is that true, Draco?"

"Yes, Mrs Weasley." The boy's voice was quavering.

"For Merlin's sake, call me Molly!"

"Sorry, Mrs W- Molly."

She took Draco by the shoulders, and he flinched sharply, shying away from her grip. "Just because you're new to this house, it doesn't mean you can get away with this. I've told you before to leave the shelves alone."

He stared at her, eyes wide and frightened.

"Draco?" Mrs Weasley said, dangerously quiet. "Answer me!"

A great tremor ran through his body. "I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry! I didn't mean it!"

Mrs Weasley's heart instantly softened. "Oh, love. I'm sorry for being so harsh."

"Please don't hit me, Father!" His eyes were glazed over, and any attempts to rouse him went unnoticed. The boy was somewhere else. 

"Is Draco alright, Mummy?" Ginny piped up, curious.

"I don't think so, Gin," Mrs Weasley said distractedly, fixated on the whimpering child before her.

He suddenly snapped out of his reverie, slumping into Mrs Weasley's embrace. "I'm sorry," he sobbed, drawing a great, shuddering breath. "I won't do it again."

"Love, can you tell me what you were thinking about, just now?"

"I was afraid."

"Afraid of what, little one?"

He buried his head in Mrs Weasley's shirt. 

"Draco?" she prompted.

"Please don't hit me!" he wailed.

"Did your parents hit you? Is that what you were thinking about?"

"I'm not allowed to talk about it." The monotone was back; the little boy's face wiped clean of expression.

"You can tell me."

"No, I can't. Father will be angry."

"Draco, love, your father is dead. Talk to me. Did your parents hit you?"

"Yes," he cried, then clamped a hand tightly over his mouth.

"Oh, Draco," she murmured into his hair, rocking him back and forth. She remembered the faint marks on his back she'd noticed days after he came to the Burrow, the bruises up and down his legs that she'd dismissed as rough play - he was a nine year old boy, after all. But now she was wondering if it was more malicious forces at work. 

"Mum?" Ginny prodded her mother's dimpled elbow. "Draco's asleep."

And indeed he was, his small features relaxed, angelic. Mrs Weasley kissed him softly and carried him upstairs to bed.


	2. In Which Fred and George Blow Up a Lavatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/support always appreciated!
> 
> Nothing terribly exciting happens in this chapter, I'm sorry to report.

Molly lay beside her husband of many years in their narrow, wooden bed, listening to his shallow breathing.

"Who would do that to a child?" she said suddenly. "It makes me sick!"

"I don't know, dear," Arthur replied, somber. "But from what I saw of the Malfoys, they were certainly the sort to."

The Weasley matriarch was flooded with an urge to protect Draco, to take hold of him and never let go. "Thank Merlin and Morgana he's our boy now," she murmured. "Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight, Mollywobbles."

Molly blushed at the sound of her nickname, thankful that the darkness hid her flaming cheeks.

* * * * 

The sun streamed through the limp maroon curtains at the window of the room Draco and Ron shared. Patterns danced behind Draco's eyelids as he feigned sleep, deep in thought. Could ghosts harm the living, he wondered? Would Father come back and avada kedavra the boy like he'd always warned he would, if Draco were to speak of what went on in Malfoy Manor? A shiver ran down Draco's spine as he recalled Father's ominous low hiss, warm breath in his ear. Don't tell, Draco. You know what happens to bad boys who tell lies...

Downstairs, Mrs Weasley pottered about, fixing breakfast for the few Weasley (and Malfoy) children who remained at home during the school year. She would have to start their lessons soon enough, the woman mused. She ran a home-school for wizarding children in the area, and taught basic math and English skills to her class of twenty-odd pupils. Mrs Weasley wondered absentmindedly if Draco had the basic literacy skills needed for Hogwarts; after all, there were no wizarding primary schools in Britain, and it was unlikely the pureblood supremacist Malfoys would let their son mix with Muggles. One of Mrs Weasley's greatest sources of anxiety regarding Draco had been the bigotry ingrained in his mind, but the boy was easily swayed, as most children at that age were. He now, thankfully, regarded blood status as irrelevant.

Speaking of Draco, Mrs Weasley realised with delight, he had slept through the night, uninterrupted, for the first time in weeks! 

"Hallo, Mum," Ron called, plodding down the staircase.

"Morning, love! Is Draco up?"

"Dunno."

Mrs Weasley turned, concerned by Ron's unusually dull tone. "What's wrong?"

"Just tired."

She shook her head at her son and his tendency to stay up past bedtime, playing wizard chess with himself. 

A pecking at the window interrupted whatever Mrs Weasley was going to say next. Errol, the family owl, perched, dishevelled, on the window ledge, a wad of letters weighing him down.

Mrs Weasley let the bird in and sifted through the mail. "Ministry - that'll be for Arthur, I suppose -Gringotts - that'll be our vault statement. Hogwarts? Why-"

Ron and his mother exchanged a glance. "Fred and George," they said in unison.

The red headed woman scanned the letter, her face growing redder and redder by the second until it was a fearsome shade of scarlet that rivalled the Hogwarts Express. "Those thoughtless, idiotic-"

"What did they do?"

"Oh, nothing, just BLEW UP A LAVATORY AND HEXED TWO STUDENTS! TWO!"

Ron grinned appreciatively.

"THEY COULDN'T WAIT ONE DAY BEFORE WREAKING HAVOC!" Mrs Weasley rummaged in the kitchen drawer, extricating the stack of howlers she had known would come in handy. "I'll just give them a piece of my mind, I will!"

Ginny chose that moment to make her entrance. "Morning, Mummy," she chirped.

"I'll give you morning!"

Ginny gulped, and wisely turned tail and fled, used to her mother's volatile temper.

* * * *

An hour later, Draco remained holed up in his bedroom, curled in a nest of blankets. A congealed lump of fear sat at the pit of his stomach. He was certain his father would kill him.

Mrs Weasley tapped softly on the door. "Draco?"

He raised his head, managing a small, sad smile.

"Oh, love." She scooped up the thin boy and held him to her. "Talk to me."

Draco said nothing. It was talking that got him into this mess. It was better to just remain silent.

"It's alright," Mrs Weasley murmured. "I can't help you unless you tell me what's wrong."

Maybe talking wasn't such a bad idea after all?

"I'm scared," he said, his voice rough from unshed tears.

"Love, if anyone tries to hurt you, they'll have me to answer to. You're one of mine now, Draco. I love you like my own son."

Warmth flooded his heart, and he swiped at his eyes angrily. He was not going to cry; Malfoys didn't cry. 

"Sometimes I forget that I'm not your mum."

The flood of tears began, wetness running down his cheeks. Oh well, Draco had never liked being a Malfoy anyway.

"Can ghosts kill people?" Draco choked out.

Mrs Weasley stifled a laugh, before she realised what Draco was implying. "Your father won't come back from the dead to hurt you, Dragon, I promise." The term of endearment slipped out easily.

Draco breathed a shuddering sigh of relief.


	3. In Which Draco Malfoy Becomes Draco Weasley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! Life™ got in the way, and I haven't uploaded in far too long. And this chapter is extremely short. I'm sorry! More is coming, I promise (Draco's going to Hogwarts pretty soon).

Weeks went by, a blur of schooling and backyard Quidditch matches and laughter. Draco was becoming more confident every day, and he had all but completely shed his pompous exterior. Two things of note occurred in the interim between September and Christmas: the first, a series of Weasley birthday celebrations; the second, Draco becoming a Weasley.

Mrs Weasley's birthday had been a whirlwind of red-headed family members, Firewhiskey, dancing and drunken discussions of the nationwide annual celebration held the next day, October 31; on Hallowe'en, magical folk everywhere praised the Boy-Who-Lived, the mysterious national hero who had defeated the greatest dark wizard of all time when he was but an infant. Ginny had wandered from table to table soaking up any tidbits of information she could find regarding Harry Potter, her cheeks flushed with the infatuation of a childhood crush, until the party got out of hand and she was shooed off to bed.

Bill's and Charlie's were much quieter affairs; as Charlie was in his sixth year at Hogwarts, a large package arrived for him on December 12th, accompanied by one of his mother's infamous Howlers, simply wishing him a (tremendously loud) happy birthday. Bill celebrated his 18th with a small gathering at the Burrow, in which Mrs Weasley attempted yet again to persuade the handsome curse-breaker to cut his hair and find a somewhat safer profession - unsuccessfully, of course.

Draco's formal initiation into the tight-knit Weasley clan came about on a crisp October day, a mere two months after Draco's arrival at the Burrow. Mrs Weasley was bustling around the house, when she paused a moment, her eyes finding the family clock. Mr Weasley's hand was pointed to Work, while the twins', Percy's and Charlie's led to School. Ginny, Ron and herself were safely at Home, and Bill's wavered every so often, usually coming to rest at Mortal Peril. Nothing new there, then. 

"Molly?" came a small voice.

"What's wrong, Draco, love?

"Ron said I'm not a part of the family."

Mrs Weasley's eyebrows crinkled with concern. "And why would he say such a thing?"

"I'm not on the clock!"

"Ah," she said. "Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?"

Days later, papers had been signed, happy tears shed, and Draco Malfoy was now Draco Weasley. A new hand had appeared on the clock almost immediately, pointing to Home. And, for the first time in his life, Draco truly felt he was home.

* * * *

A few days before Christmas, the family Floo'd to Kings Cross to pick up the twins, Percy and Charlie. They stood, craning their necks for any sight of the boys amid the train's smoke. Finally, Fred ran over and flung his arms around Mrs Weasley, the others following closely behind. 

"Absolutely splendid to see you, Mum!" George's words were muffled, his face buried close to his mother.

"Yes, corking!" Fred added. "And you lot, I suppose." He gestured to his younger siblings. Ginny stuck out her tongue.

"Anyway, we best be off. Your father will be home from the Ministry soon."

"Tell us about Hogwarts, Freddie," Ron and Ginny chorused. They listened raptly every holiday to their brothers' tales of life at the mysterious magic school, and the mischievous twins would certainly have some good stories to tell.

"Well, there was that time we blew up a lavatory..." George glanced sideways at his mother, eyes sparkling.

"Don't remind me," Mrs Weasley grumbled, but inside, she was smiling. Her boys were home again.


	4. In Which First Year Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that. She's updated. Bet you never thought you'd see the day.
> 
> If Draco seems out of character, bear in mind that: 1) he's an abuse sufferer in this fic, and he's dealing with that as best he can, realistically; and 2) he's a product of his upbringing, and the Weasleys have shaped him greatly.
> 
> In other news, I'd just like to put it out there that I'm only 13, and my writing style is constantly developing. It's changed since the last time I updated, even, but for continuity's sake, I'll try to maintain it. What I'm trying to say is please don't judge me too harshly.
> 
> Also, I'm a little technologically challenged, so the words that would usually be in italics have asterisks on either side. Yeah, I don't know how to work the internets. (Update: I worked it out! Be proud, guys!)
> 
> Reviews/constructive criticism/advice always appreciated!
> 
> P.S. fun drinking game: take a shot every time you read the word Weasley.

Christmas morning dawned, and a blanket of snow coated the Burrow. Mr and Mrs Weasley were woken by the ecstatic cries of their children, and stumbled, bleary eyed and groaning, downstairs. Ginny launched into her parents’ arms. “Mum! Dad! It's Christmas!” 

“They had no idea,” Charlie drawled, arms folded. Everyone sighed. Charlie was going through a ‘phase’, which meant that he rolled his eyes often and scoffed at any display of affection. Mrs Weasley was positive that he would grow out of it, but the rest of the family weren't so sure.

Draco hung back awkwardly, not sure of his place. This was his first Christmas with the Weasleys, and it contrasted sharply to the chilly tension of the Manor; the overturned tree, the trampled presents, his mother’s cool hands sponging the blood from his face. He was startled out of thought by Mrs Weasley, who, upon noticing his vacant expression, had concluded that Draco needed some support.

“Come on, dear. Sit beside me on the sofa, here,” she said, handing him a parcel.

“Thanks,” Draco said softly, wide-eyed. Unsure of himself, he gazed around the room. Fred and George were unwrapping knitted jumpers, identical but for the initial on the front of each. Ron’s voice piped up in the chatter: “Not maroon, again!” and Draco turned to see him glaring at a jumper similar to the twins’.

“Going to open your present, or what?” Ginny asked, looking curiously at Draco. 

He flushed. “Y-yes, I was just-”

“Leave him alone!” Mrs Weasley scolded. “Not everyone has as happy a family as you, Ginevra Weasley. This may very well be Draco's first Christmas present!”

“First-” Ron’s jaw fell very nearly to his chin. “How can this be your first Christmas present?”

Draco was close to tears. “I don't want to talk about it,” he mumbled, scarlet faced.

“I think it's time for hot chocolate,” Mrs Weasley said suddenly, shooing the children into the kitchen. Only Draco remained, sitting hunched up on the sofa. He peered at the present in his hands. It _was_ his first Christmas present, and he didn't know quite what to expect. He unwrapped it carefully, slowly, folding each scrap of paper and piling it beside him. A knitted lump poked out at him - was it? yes, he thought it was - a Weasley jumper! Fresh tears appeared in his eyes as he donned the oversize, green jumper. He was part of the family, and he belonged. Never mind that the very nearly Slytherin green of the wool brought back some unpleasant memories. Never mind that it made his arms itch. Never mind that it hung almost to his knees. He _belonged_.

* * * *

Boxing Day, as per Weasley tradition, was spent in Diagon Alley, capitalising on the post-Christmas sales. Mrs Weasley needed new robes, Fred wanted an owl - for convenience, he told his mum, but she suspected it would be playing a part in some elaborate scheme the twins had dreamed up - and Charlie was splitting the cost of a broom with his parents (prompting a heated debate with the shopkeeper about the benefits of a Cleansweep Five versus that of a Shooting Star).

The remainder of the holidays passed quickly and uneventfully, and soon enough, Charlie, Percy, Fred and George were boarding the Hogwarts Express once more.

* * * *

A year passed, and then another, until it was the summer before Ron and Draco’s first year at Hogwarts. Draco had developed an acerbic wit and an ego to rival that of his deceased father, but somehow, on him, it was endearing, while Ron had a steadfast loyalty to those whom he liked and an infectious grin. Their letters had arrived to much excitement - “Hogwarts? You? We thought you were Squibs, the pair of you,” the twins had teased fondly - and supplies had been purchased. Charlie had grown out of his scornful phase, and gone to study dragons in Romania. Ginny pored over the theories appearing in the Daily Prophet regarding the enigmatic Harry Potter, and pinned each grainy prospective sighting of him to her wall, much to the dismay of Mrs Weasley.

“I worry,” she said to Mr Weasley. “I don't want her to be let down, when Harry Potter doesn't even notice she exists.”

“Leave it, Molly. She'll grow out of it.”

“I hope so.” 

* * * *

The family hustled through King’s Cross through crowds of Muggles, with strange looks directed at their appearance. They had tried to dress like the non-magical folk that populated the area, but had somehow managed to attract more attention than they would've in their robes.

They reached Platform 9 3/4 at the same time as a scrawny boy with the messiest hair Draco had ever seen. He was standing there staring, bewildered, at the bricks between Platform 9 and 10.

“First time, dear?” Mrs Weasley said kindly.

The boy nodded, offering a small smile. He looked lost, Draco thought, and in need of a hug. Mrs Weasley gave plenty of those, and Draco had found it strange at first, but he had quickly realised how starved of physical affection he had been throughout his childhood.

They went through the wall, one by one, and began their goodbyes. Mrs Weasley kissed the top of Draco’s head, and gave him one last long look. “You write home lots, yes?”

Draco nodded.

“I love you, Draco. Don't you ever forget that.”

“I love you too - Mum.”

Mrs Weasley’s heart swelled. In all the years Draco had lived with them, he had never once called her Mum - until now. A strange, bittersweet feeling crept through her; the way it always was with goodbyes.

Ginny pulled at her arm insistently. “Mum!”

“Yes?”

Fred - or was it George? - was mouthing something from the train. She couldn't quite make it out over the din. “Harry Potter,” she heard, “the boy we helped! It was Harry Potter!”

Ginny’s cheeks turned a bright scarlet. “Can I go see him, Mum? Please?”

“I'm sure the boy has enough people gawking at him already!” Mrs Weasley said sternly, all trace of sadness gone. “Come on, now. Home we go.”


	5. In Which Draco is Sorted

Draco and Ron boarded the Hogwarts Express amidst clouds of scarlet smoke, waving forlorn goodbyes to Mrs Weasley and Ginny. They shared a glance, each took a shaky breath, and they pushed their way down the train to find an empty carriage. Finally, they reached the last compartment, which held one passenger: none other than the scruffy-haired boy from before - Harry Potter.

“Blimey,” Ron mouthed. “Wait til I tell Ginny.”

The door screeched open, and the boys stood awkwardly at the entrance to the carriage. “Mind if we sit here?” Draco said.

Harry looked mildly startled. “Erm, yes. Sure.”

“Everywhere else was full,” Ron said by way of explanation. They trodded in, and sat across from Harry.

The three sat in uncomfortable silence for a time. “You're Harry Potter, aren't you?” Ron said suddenly.

“Erm, well, yes, he's me - I mean, I'm him,” he stammered.

“Can I see the scar?”

Draco elbowed Ron in the ribs. “Honestly,” the blond hissed.

“Sure,” Harry said, giving them a strange look. “It's just a scar, really.” He plastered back his fringe, revealing a livid red lightning bolt on his forehead. 

“I'm Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.”

“And I'm Draco Ma- Weasley.”

“You’re both first years?” Harry asked. “You don't much look like twins.”

“I'm adopted,” Draco said. “My parents died when I was nine.”

“My parents are dead too,” Harry said. “Only, mine died when I was too young to remember them.”

“Yes, I know,” Draco replied.

Harry gave him another strange look, before his face split into an embarrassed grin. “I keep forgetting that the whole Wizarding World knows my story. It's odd. I grew up with Muggles, you know - well, I s’pose you do know that.”

“What're the Muggles like?” Ron asked. 

Something in Harry’s face shuttered closed. “Fine,” he said stiffly. He smiled again, but instead of the easy grin of before, he looked pained, almost as though he was struggling not to cry.

Draco immediately recognised his expression. It was the one he himself had worn, back before he was a Weasley. He was absolutely certain that Harry wasn't in a happy home. 

“Anything from the trolley, dears?” the trolley-woman called, pulling Draco from his ruminations.

Harry stood up. “One of everything, please.”

Ron and Draco’s jaws dropped. Although the Weasleys received a small sum of money from the Malfoy vault each month to assist with Draco’s expenses, their money was stretched very tightly, what with providing four boys with Hogwarts supplies, not to mention feeding eight mouths. It was very far from Draco’s opulent lifestyle of the past, but he couldn't be happier.

“Help yourself,” Harry said, arms laden with various wizarding delicacies. The three munched away for a time.

“What are chocolate frogs?” Harry enquired presently. He was examining a purple box, one very familiar to Draco and Ron, and all wizard-raised children. “It can't be real frogs, can it?”

“It's just an enchantment. They come with cards, too. We collect them.”

Harry tore it open. “I've got Dumbledore!”

“Oh, I've got about twenty of him,” Ron said. 

“He's moving!” Harry exclaimed, his face alight in wonder.

“Do you mean to say Muggle pictures don't move?” Draco said incredulously.

“Why, of course not.”

They were interrupted by the screeching of the door. A bushy haired, brown eyed girl stood on the threshold, brows furrowed. “Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville’s lost one.”

The boys shared inquisitive glances with one another. “No,” Draco supplied. “Sorry.”

“Why, you're Harry Potter!”

“So I'm told,” Harry said wryly.

“I've read all about you! Did you know you've been mentioned in thirty books? And that's just the ones I've read, of course.”

“No,” he said, taken aback. “No, I didn't.”

“Oh, how rude of me! I'm Hermione Granger,” she said pompously, offering her hand to each of the boys in turn. “Anyway, I must be getting back to Neville. See you at school! Oh, and I'd change into my robes if I were you. We're almost at Hogwarts.”

They sat in stunned silence for a few moments after Hermione left.

“She's really something,” Ron said dazedly.

“She talks rather fast, doesn't she?”

“She's read _thirty_ books about you, Harry?”

“And she's a Mud- Muggleborn, so she's read those thirty books since she's got her letter,” Draco said. “My parents made me learn about the pureblood families,” he explained, at the others’ odd looks.

“Anyway, we ought to change into our robes,” Ron said. 

* * * *

“What house do you expect you'll be sorted into?” Harry asked, as they trudged towards the lake, and the waiting boats. “I don't know much about them.”

“My whole family’s been in Gryffindor,” Ron said. “I expect I'll be too.”

“The Malfoys - my old family,” he said, anticipating Harry’s question, “were all Slytherins, but I've never been like them.”

“Firsties,” came a booming voice in front of them. A kind faced half-giant stood before them. “Firsties this way!”

“Hagrid!” Harry exclaimed.

“‘Ullo, ‘Arry!” Hagrid’s face broke into a wide smile. “An’ you must be Ron, an’ - Malfoy?”

Draco flushed. He had forgotten the infamy of the Malfoy clan.

“He's a Weasley now, Hagrid,” Ron interjected. Draco shot him a grateful smile.

They drifted slowly toward the sprawling majesty that was to be their school, idle chatter floating through the air. They rounded a corner, and Harry gasped as Hogwarts came into full view. It was breathtaking.

Shortly, they were standing in an entrance hall, shepherded by Professor McGonagall, who had introduced herself as the Deputy Head. 

“How do they sort us?” Harry asked as they waited to be led into the Great Hall.

“Fred and George always said that it was something horrid, like fighting a troll,” Ron said nervously.

“Surely not,” Draco hissed as they began to spill into the hall. They fell silent as they took in the grandeur of the hall, and the hundreds of faces staring curiously at the first years. Ghosts were floating aimlessly around, and Harry went white at the sight of the Bloody Baron. Draco was accustomed to such spirits; the Manor had been full of dead ancestors who decided to make an appearance every once in a while.

The first student was called to be sorted, and a hush fell over the hall. A shabby hat was placed over her head, and almost immediately, it called out, ‘HUFFLEPUFF!” Abbot, Hannah shuffled off to her table amidst cheers from the yellow and black clad students.

The three boys looked at each other in relief. “We don't have to fight a troll,” Ron said delightedly.

Harry was the first of the three to be called. The hat fell over his eyes, so small was he. Whispers had broken out, but they had fell silent as they waited, and it felt as though the entire hall was holding its breath. The hat deliberated for some time, until it called, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The table erupted into applause, proud to be the home of the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry flushed, and sat next to Hermione, who had been sorted earlier.

Ron was the next of the trio to go. The hat had barely touched his head when it bellowed “GRYFFINDOR!” Harry cheered.

“Weasley, Draco,” Professor McGonagall said.

Draco stumbled up on shaking legs. The hat fell over his eyes, and his world was plunged into darkness. “Interesting,” the hat mused. Its voice seemed to reverberate through the caverns of Draco’s mind. “You have the bloodline of a Slytherin, certainly.”

 _I want to be with my friends_ , Draco thought, although in the strange mind-land he inhabited currently, it sounded as though he spoke it.

“Loyalty of a Hufflepuff, too,” the hat chuckled. “And the feisty courage of a Gryffindor. But I've never even considered sorting a Malfoy into anything but Slytherin.”

 _I'm not a Malfoy_ , Draco thought-spoke, _Not anymore_

“Well, then,” said the hat, “Better be… GRYFFINDOR!”

Delighted, Draco walked to the Gryffindor table with a spring in his step. He was almost happy enough not to notice the shock on the faces at the Slytherin table, and the whispers that had erupted. Almost.


	6. In Which the Slytherins are Snakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, so, I ended up hating the chapter I posted yesterday, so I redid it. Apologies for any confusion this has caused.
> 
> Also! I'm not biased toward Slytherin - in fact, I'm a Slytherin myself - I'm just trying to uphold JK's portrayal of the houses. Which, admittedly, was very biased. Just know it's not a personal opinion.

Draco spent the beginning of the feast pointedly ignoring the Slytherins - children of his father’s former associates - although he couldn't help but hear various snippets of conversation.

“The Malfoy boy? A Gryffindor? Wait til Mother hears of this!”

“His father would be so ashamed if he were still alive.”

“Blood traitor” was hissed a great many times, as well as “Pureblood scum.” Ron and Harry were oblivious. They did notice Draco’s silence, but chalked it up to nerves about school and mutually decided it would be kinder to turn a blind eye.

Draco felt sick to his stomach. His nostrils flared as he tried to keep his breathing under control, and his hands shook. He had managed to move past his traumatic childhood throughout the last two years, but it was as if the whispers had triggered an unconscious reaction within him, and the box in which he stored his unpleasant memories had been wrested open. An onslaught of visuals danced behind his eyes - the first time he had seen his father hit his mother, and the ensuing blood that pooled on the carpet; Lucius’s face, inches from his, crooning about what happened to bad little boys; his parents’ mutilated bodies. He suddenly felt trapped, as if the walls were closing in on him. The warm light of the hall, which had once felt atmospheric, was now harsh, too bright, and everyone seemed to be talking unbearably loudly. He needed to escape, and he needed to now.

Ron put a gentle hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You alright, mate?”

The ex-Malfoy scion jerked violently, rose and stumbled from the Great Hall. Murmurs rippled in his wake, and Severus Snape looked up curiously from the Potions book he had been perusing. He was technically Draco’s godfather, although the boy himself didn’t know it, and he had hoped he would be sorted into Slytherin. Alas, Draco was a Gryffindor, and Snape wanted nothing more to do with his godson. He was a fickle, narcissistic man, and he wouldn’t damage the persona he had crafted for the sake of a relationship with a Gryffindor.

Ron raced from the room in pursuit of his brother. He found Draco huddled in a small, empty room off the Entrance Hall, approximately the size of a broom closet. 

“Draco.” Ron sat down and wrapped a tentative arm around his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

Draco looked up, his cheeks stained by the tracks of the tears slipping down his face. “I – I just needed some air.”

“Mhm.” Ron was unconvinced.

Silence ensued, until Draco said, his voice quivering, “The Slytherins – my father’s friends’ children – they were saying things.”

“ _Things_?”

“Blood traitor,” he supplied, “But it’s not really what they were saying. It’s just the attention, and the looks.”

Ron cursed under his breath. “I’ll hex them for you.”

“You don’t know any magic yet.” Draco managed a watery smile.

“Just wait ‘til I do,” he grinned, although Draco could still see the fierce anger in his eyes. “Want to go back?”

He nodded. They walked into the Great Hall side by side, and, although the whispers began again almost immediately, this time Draco had his brother by his side, and he felt brave enough to do anything.

* * * *

Draco, Ron and Harry followed Percy, who was the fifth year Gryffindor prefect, up to their house tower along with the other first years. Their stomachs were full, they were content and they were happy.

They soon reached the portrait that guarded Gryffindor Tower. Aptly named the Fat Lady, she was dressed in head to toe pink frills, and seemed to be more than a little intoxicated.

“Password?”

“Fortuna major,” said Percy, and Draco made a mental note.

The Fat Lady swung open with a smile, revealing the spacious common room, bedecked in gold and crimson. A fireplace crackled merrily, its light dancing along the walls, and plump armchairs were littered about the room. Several tables sat along each wall, surrounded by chairs. There were many doors leading off the room, presumably to dormitories.

“Welcome home,” Percy said grandly, flinging his arms out wide. “First year dormitories are through here-” he indicated a door to the left of the fireplace, “Boys to the left, girls to the right. Your trunks are waiting for you.”

The three boys raced eagerly up the staircase to their room. Six four-poster beds lined the walls, each with a night-table and a dresser on either side. There were several large windows, and another door led to an ensuite.

Draco immediately claimed the bed closest to a window, throwing himself onto the red blankets. As Ron and Harry chose beds on either side, three more boys burst into the room.

“Hullo, I’m Seamus,” said the first, with a strong Scottish accent. “This is Dean.”

“I’m Neville,” said the third, a shy, rather plump, round-faced boy, “Neville Longbottom.”

“I’m Ron,” said Ron, “This is my brother, Draco, and that’s-”

“Harry Potter,” said Seamus at once. “We know.” They all looked curiously at his forehead, and Harry pushed his fringe back wearily. Neville gawked. 

Within ten minutes, they had all unpacked, and their dressers were littered with various personal belongings. Everyone but Harry had looked strangely at Dean’s worn Manchester United poster, until he explained that it was a Muggle sporting team. This had prompted a lengthy discussion about Quidditch, not to mention a heated debate about the ‘best’ team. Ron and Draco had received a letter from Mrs Weasley, and had sent back their replies immediately. 

Neville was in the middle of telling a story about his uncle nearly drowning him while testing his magical abilities, when Percy rapped on the door. “Lights out!”

They all clambered under the covers and switched out the light. Neville began snoring almost immediately. Draco lay there, pondering the events of the day. He felt at home in Gryffindor, but he couldn’t help but think of what his parents would say if they were alive. His father would have stormed in to Dumbledore’s office and demanded that he be resorted, and if that didn’t work, Draco supposed he would have forced him to transfer to Durmstrang. His mother would have been cold, disappointed, and Draco knew that would be worse than any beating from his father.

But they were dead. They were dead, and Draco was a Gryffindor, and he was _happy_.


	7. Interlude: Letters Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, September 1st & 2nd (the days these letters take place) were a Sunday and a Monday in 1991, so in my head I'm kind of assuming that Draco and Ron got the first letter from Molly after the feast, then replied, then the next few took place over the first day of lessons.

The Burrow, September 1st.

My darling sons,  
Congratulations on being sorted into Gryffindor! Your father and I are so proud. We hope you are well, and that you are not terribly homesick. We miss you. 

Be good, my loves, and behave yourselves. Do your homework, and don’t listen to anything Fred and George tell you!

With endless love,  
Mum.

* * * *

Hogwarts, September 1st.

Dear Molly,

I do miss you, and Arthur and Ginny, but Hogwarts is wonderful. The castle is beautiful, and I’m looking forward to lessons (not so much the homework, though). 

But after the Sorting, when we were eating, the Slytherins were being dreadful. Most of them are children of my father’s friends, you know, and they knew me when I was younger. They were saying I was a blood traitor, and all kinds of horrible things. It made me remember a lot of what happened with my father. I’m OK now – Ron helped loads, but I’m worried about what the Slytherins will do next. I never wanted to make enemies, especially on my first day.

Love, Draco.

* * * *

Hogwarts, September 1st.

Mum,

Hogwarts is bloody brilliant (sorry). I love it here, and, guess what? Draco and I are friends with Harry Potter!

But, I’m worried about Draco. The Slytherins were being right prats to him at the feast, and he ran out of the hall. I went after him, of course, and he had been crying. He wouldn’t tell me much, but I think he was thinking about his father. Also, he's not confident any more. He's quiet, and shy, and mousy, and I'm worried.

You never told me, you know. What exactly did Draco’s father do to him? Why is he terrified of loud noises, and people coming up behind him? I can guess, but I want to be able to help him through it as much as I can.

Love, Ron.

* * * *

The Burrow, September 1st.

Dear Minerva,

I thought it best to inform you, as Head of Gryffindor, about this, in the hope that you can be there for my son in my absence. As you know, Draco came to me when he was nine, after his parents died. What you perhaps do not know is that Draco and his mother were heavily abused by Lucius Malfoy. There were a few issues over the years, but Draco generally seemed to be a happy, well adjusted boy. 

I think there was more to it than I realised. I think Draco has many repressed memories about his past. In retrospect, I should have realised that he was heavily traumatised, and that even if he seemed happy on the surface, there were many memories lurking in the depths of his mind. But I’ve no experience with these things, so I’m trying not to blame myself too harshly.

But, Minerva, please look after Draco. He is more fragile than he seems, and those Slytherin children are already getting to him. If you could meet with him every so often, and just check on him, I would be forever grateful.

Sincerely,  
Molly Weasley.

* * * *

The Burrow, September 2nd.

Draco,

I’m so sorry about what’s happened. I wish I could be there to comfort you, darling. I’ve spoken with your head of house, and asked her to keep an eye out for any Slytherins who bother you.

We Weasleys have been called blood traitors for generations. But, love, I’d much rather be a blood traitor, and a “Muggle-lover” than a bigoted Death Eater. Don’t let silly name-calling hurt you. 

If you _ever_ need to talk, I am here. That’s what mothers are for.

All my love,  
Molly.

* * * *

The Burrow, September 2nd.

Ron,

Thank you for being so caring and kind. You have a gentle heart, my love. Don’t let anyone change that.

I’ve spoken to Professor McGonagall, and she’ll be keeping an eye on Draco, and I know you will too. Just don’t do anything rash in anger. Slytherins are people just as we are, and they deserve respect. Remember: all children are products of their upbringing.

Don’t become so focused on protecting your brother that you forget to live your life, Ron. 

Also, Draco’s past is his, and his alone, to tell you about. He will open up to you if he chooses to. As for his change in personality? I think it's just a change being around so many children. Any change is bound to be hard for him to deal with, because of his rocky early years.

I love you.

Mum.

* * * *

Hogwarts, September 2nd.

Molly,

Thank you for writing to me. I had no idea of Draco’s past – I assume Albus knew, but didn’t see fit to inform me?

I will certainly keep an eye on Draco, and rest assured, any bullies will have me to answer to. 

Sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall.


	8. In Which Snape is a Wanker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for the wait! My school term just ended, so I'm no longer anywhere near as busy as I have been. I'm hoping to update every second or third day for the next six weeks or so whilst I'm on holidays. I've been going through a bit of a writing slump atm, and nothing I write seems good enough, and I'm not completely happy with this, but my need to post has overridden my perfectionism. Sorry if this chapter isn't the greatest, but there will be a new one out in a couple of days.

Monday dawned clear and cold. Draco woke first, a smile splitting his face as he remembered where he was. Hogwarts! He scrambled out of bed and nudged Ron, who yawned and made to shove Draco away. 

“Ron,” he cajoled, “It’s breakfast!”

Draco’s brother rose at once at the mention of food, and together they dressed in their blazers, robes and scarlet and gold ties. The movement had woken the others, who were stumbling around and rummaging in trunks. Eventually they were all semi-presentable, and made their way out of the dormitory.

The common room was even more magnificent in the daylight, but the rumble of their stomachs dissuaded the boys from gaping for too long. They tumbled out of the portrait-hole and stood for a moment, trying to find their bearings. 

“I think the hall’s this way,” Dean said, gesturing toward a corridor to their left.

“No, it was that way, wasn’t it,” said Ron, “through that stone door just there!”

They all erupted into chatter, arguing, and talking over one another, until the Fat Lady, who had been pointedly covering her ears, swung open. A group of third-years emerged.

The boys cast furtive looks at each other, none of them wanting to speak up. Ron broke the silence. “D’you think you could show us the way to the Great Hall?”

“First years?” one asked sympathetically, a tall, blonde girl with a nose piercing. “Follow us.”

* * * *

The Hall was fairly empty when they reached it, with sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired students just beginning to file in. There were only two teachers at the staff table: Quirrell, who sported a blue turban, and McGonagall, their head of house, who was poring over a brick-like book. Despite the lack of students, the tables were already laden with food, and the six boys sat down and heaped their plates.

Hermione Granger was the next of the Gryffindor first years to join them at the table. She was alone, her arms laden with several dusty books, and her bushy hair wisped about her face. Neville, who sat quietly on the outskirts of their group, offered her a nervous smile. She grinned back just as awkwardly, and sat herself beside him, her books dropping to the table with a thud.

For the next several minutes they ate, their chewing punctuated by excited chatter. The noise in the Hall rose as more students entered, until everyone was almost shouting to be heard over the clamour. The first year Slytherins stalked in together, shooting glares at Draco. Ron glowered right back, and Draco did the same. He felt much safer now, stronger, surrounded by his brother and his housemates; less uncertain about his place.

A tall, dark Slytherin boy raised an eyebrow and curled his lip in their direction. He peeled himself away from the group and came to a stop in front of their table. “Watch yourself, Malfoy,” he sneered. “Filthy blood traitor.” 

Ron stood abruptly, his fork clattering to the table, all fiery red hair and fiery red expression. 

“It’s not worth it,” Draco hissed. “C’mon, sit down.” But his warnings were for nothing, as the Slytherin boy had stalked away just as quickly as he had appeared.

Draco sat in stunned silence for a moment, his heart pounding. He glanced at Ron, who was fuming beside him, and caught his eye. He felt a hand grasp his under the table and squeeze it, and gave his brother a grateful grin. “What an arse,” Ron said loudly, breaking the silence, and the others quietly murmured their agreement, still reeling from the Slytherin’s rude intrusion.

McGonagall cleared her throat sternly from behind them. Ron jumped. “Your timetables,” she said, handing them each a sheet of paper. Her eyes settled on Draco, and she gave him a long look (he stared back uncomfortably and felt his cheeks redden), before moving down the table to the next group of students.

“Double Potions with the Slytherins first,” Dean Thomas groaned, examining his timetable.

Draco’s heart sunk. He couldn’t even make it through breakfast without an encounter with the green and gold students; how would he make it through two hours in a classroom with them?

“I’ve heard that Snape’s a wanker of a teacher,” said Seamus Finnegan. “He plays favourites with his house.”

“Great,” Draco said, acerbic, anxiety roiling in his stomach, “I can’t wait.”

* * * *

The dungeons were cold and unfriendly, with slimy walls of rock and air thick with the scent of the sea, or, rather, the lake that surrounded them. Professor Snape’s classroom was dimly lit; several candles flickered faintly along the walls, but they did very little to penetrate the heavy gloom of the room. 

The Gryffindor boys filed in together, taking their seats toward the back of the classroom. Hermione had selected a seat in the front row, and her books and quill were already arranged neatly before her. When the shuffle of feet and chair-legs had subsided, and students' chatter filled the room, Professor Snape emerged dramatically from a door at the back of the room.

Ron and Draco exchanged a look full of equal parts apprehension and amusement. The man was imposing, certainly, but he also bore a startling resemblance to an overgrown bat. His lank hair fell nearly to his shoulders, he wore billowing black robes, and his face was shadowed by a colossal hooked nose. 

He greeted them, and proceeded to take the role, smirking when he reached Harry's name. "Ah, Mr Potter. Our new... celebrity."

Draco gulped. His tone of voice was almost synonymous with Draco's father's; cold, calculating, the kind of voice that delighted in humiliation. He wasn't wrong; for the next several minutes, Draco watched helplessly as both Harry and Hermione were taunted by the man, until they were left with tears in their eyes, the Slytherins sniggering quietly.

Then, Snape rounded on Draco. "Well, well, well," he sneered, "Malfoy. A Gryffindor? Your father would be outraged."

"My father is dead," Draco said, daring to meet the professor's eyes. He steeled himself, trying desperately to quell the urge to shrink away. "What he would or wouldn't think doesn't matter. And it's Weasley, sir."

He curled his lip. "Not in my class, it isn't. I don't need any more of those dunderheaded fools to teach. Nice try, _Malfoy_."


	9. In Which a Small Victory is Won

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God. I kind of terribly failed my uploading schedule and I am so sorry... but this year I have resolved to do better! (Happy New Year, by the way!!)
> 
> Also, question. I’m rewriting this fanfic and want to know: should I update this existing story with each revised chapter or should I open an entirely new story? The plot will be staying the same for the most part, it will just be expanded on and the writing will be better. (I hope that makes sense oops)

Draco spent the rest of Potions class in a stupor. He felt humiliated, powerless, and even Ron’s kind sympathy could do nothing to help him. For all his confidence and ego when he was with his family, inside he was small and shy and scared, and he didn’t know what to do. By the end of class, he was almost in tears; he’d been unable to complete his potion, and Snape had sneered, docking five points from Gryffindor.

“If it’s any consolation,” Ron said as they headed upstairs, “I lost points too. So did Harry, and Neville, and Seamus and Dean. I think Hermione was the only Gryffindor who didn’t, really.”

Draco frowned. “But everyone else only lost three.”

“Well,” Ron allowed, “Yes. But don’t worry, no one blames you for it. I don’t think anyone likes Snape, not even the Slytherins.”

“Thanks, Ron.” He smiled weakly.

Their next three classes, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts and History of Magic, passed without incident, although Professor Quirrell, the DADA teacher, did smell rather strongly and annoyingly of garlic. Draco had shoved Professor Snape to the recesses of his mind, and by the end of the day, as the first years slumped onto the sofas of the common room, exhausted, he had almost forgotten about him.

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and the red velour of the couch felt like the softest thing Draco had ever sat upon. His brother and Harry were on either side of him, trying - and failing - to make a start on their homework. They had already been assigned a Charms essay and some dates about the Goblin Revolution of 1456-1479 to memorise for History of Magic, and it was only the first day. Draco had scribbled down the dates on scrap parchment in class and decided that was good enough, and he was now struggling to craft an introduction to his essay about Levitation Charms. Hermione, who sat alone at a large round table in the corner of the common room, had already filled two rolls of parchment in her tiny cramped handwriting, and was now reading a book with a smug smile on her face.

Draco, Ron and Harry sat there, side by side, for hours, until the shadows had grown long and the first and second years were all yawning and rubbing at their eyes. They headed up to the dormitories with the others, Draco mulling over the events of the day.

The boys undressed and murmured goodnights, clambering into their beds and drawing the curtains. Despite the thoughts that clouded his head, Draco - and his housemates - fell asleep almost immediately.

* * * *

The next few days passed without incident, and everyone soon fell into a routine of eating, sleeping and attending classes. 

On Tuesday afternoon, Draco, Ron and Harry were late for their first Tranfiguration class, prompting a disapproving glare from McGonagall. When she asked Draco to stay behind after class, he thought it must be because of his tardiness. Much to his surprise, the harridan gave him a kind, if thin smile and seated him before her desk, offering him a biscuit from a tin.

“Is everything alright, Professor?” Draco asked, confused.

“Yes... and no. Your mother wrote to me and told me about some, erm, _troubles_ you’ve been having with the Slytherins.”

“Oh,” Draco said, flushing. “Yeah.”

“She asked me to keep an eye on you.” The professor had debated whether to tell the boy she knew of his past, and had decided against it for now. “Would you like to tell me anything, Mr Weasley?”

“Erm, no, Professor. Thanks.”

She met his eyes, her expression unreadable. “Very well then. I’m here at any time.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Draco said again, awkward. He got up, his chair scraping loudly against the flagstone floor.

McGonagall watched him leave, a strange look in her eyes. She’d never imagined herself feeling anything but disgust for a Malfoy - but, then again, the boy wasn’t a Malfoy anymore.

 

* * * *

Ron and Harry were waiting for Draco outside the classroom. “What did she want?” Ron said when he caught sight of him. The trio started toward the dormitories as they spoke.

“She wanted to talk about the Slytherin thing. Molly wrote and told her.”

“Did you tell her about Snape?” Harry asked.

“No.”

Ron’s mouth fell open. “Why the bloody hell not?”

“It’ll only make it worse,” Draco said reasonably. “He’ll just be angrier. We only have to see him twice a week, after all.”

“See whom twice a week?” A voice came from around the next corner, where the bat-like professor himself stood. 

Draco’s heart sank. 

“No one,” Ron muttered.

“No one, _sir_ ,” Snape sneered. “Two points from Gryffindor.” With that he strode off, robes billowing in his wake.

“Twice a week, huh?” Harry said. Draco stared at the ground.

 

* * * *

On Wednesday afternoon, they traipsed out to the Quidditch pitch for their first Flying lesson. Draco wasn’t worried; his father had hired him a tutor the day after his second birthday, determined to ensure that he excelled in all fields. He’d been flying since before he could run.

Ron, on the other hand, had flown stealthily, in the stolen hours of the night when his brothers were asleep and wouldn’t claim rights to the Weasleys’ two ancient Cleansweep Ones. Harry, of course, had never touched a broomstick in his life except as a cleaning tool under the tyranny of the Dursleys (that he could remember).

Neville was with them, the round-faced boy clutching his new Remembrall with delight. It had been a rare present from his Gran, whose parenting philosophy tended along the lines of ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’. “I’ve never flown before,” he told them, “Gran always said I’d embarrass her.”

Draco gave him a sympathetic look. “My father said I was an embarrassment, too,” he offered shyly. Ron glanced at him, surprised. He’d never shared anything about his past.

Neville smiled at the blond boy. “Thanks.”

* * * *

After a half hour lecture on broom safety, the first years were finally allowed to experience flying hands-on. The formidable Madam Hooch paced up and down the line of students, correcting their stances. “Put your hand over your broom, and say ‘up’,” she instructed briskly.

Harry’s broom jumped into his hands at once, much to his surprise. Draco’s did too, admittedly with a little less vigour. He was out of practise, he supposed. Ron and Neville, however, had no such luck. Their brooms twitched weakly, but refused to rise.

“Be firm, boys,” Madam Hooch barked, not unkindly.

Eventually, the class were mounted, apprehensive, on their brooms, awaiting their teacher’s signal.

“3...2...1-”

Neville, too eager or anxious or both, had kicked off hard, and was rapidly rising into the air, his face ashen and his mouth agape.

“Get down here, now!” Madam Hooch was fuming.

At her words, Neville suddenly toppled off his broom, falling fast and landing with a nasty crunch. Madam Hooch sighed, rubbing her face, and bustled him off to the hospital wing after a curt warning toward the class about flying without her present.

The class stood, stunned, for a moment, before the dark Slytherin from Monday’s breakfast, whose name, they’d learned, was Zabini, sniggered. “Did you see his face, the fat lump.”

Ron clenched his fist.

“Look, it’s his little toy,” he taunted, picking up Neville’s treasured Remembrall. “I better take this so I can... give it back to him.” 

“Shove off, Zabini,” Harry said. “Give me the Remembrall.”

“Better come get it, Potter,” he spat, leaping onto his broom and kicking off into the sky, smirking.

Harry followed suit, much to Hermione’s dismay. “Harry, no! You’ll only lose housepoints!”

He grimly ignored her, taking off in pursuit of Zabini. Draco looked on, torn between fear and a strange desire to prove himself. His testosterone won the fight, and, steeling himself, he clambered onto his broom and rose steadily into the air.

“Aw, Potter, your little traitor pet’s come to help you out!”

Draco’s face flushed with anger. “Shut _up_ , Zabini,” he ground out. 

Zabini faltered for a second, then smirked again. “Alright, then, Potter, Malfoy. Catch!” And he threw the Remembrall hard and fast across the pitch.

Thus followed a tense and desperate dive in which both Harry and Draco raced against gravity to grab the ball before it hit the ground and was scooped up by one of Zabini’s thugs. The wind whipped their hair about and blood thrummed in their ears as they pushed their brooms further and further. Harry won, but just, their brooms all but scraping the ground in quick succession as they flopped down, triumphant, the Remembrall in Harry’s hand. The Gryffindors whooped and cheered, as did a handful of Slytherins before they were silenced by their peers’ furious looks. Harry and Draco exchanged a glance, grinning widely. In that moment, they felt like they could do anything.


	10. In Which the Boys (Don’t) Partake in a Wizard Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this will be the last chapter I do before rewriting this story. Updates will still be coming out at the same time, but they’ll be rewrites of existing chapters. 
> 
> Someone please tell me whether I should just update this work or make an entirely new work for the rewrite.
> 
> Endless thanks as always for reading :)

Harry and Draco stood there, exhilarated, on the pitch. Adrenaline thrummed in their veins and huge smiles split their faces in two. Harry clutched the Remembrall tightly in his hand.

“Bloody brilliant,” Ron said, clapping them on the backs.

They were suddenly interrupted by a furious voice, heavy with a Scottish brogue. “Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, follow me, _now_.”

They gulped, and fled after her.

“What were you thinking? You could’ve been killed!” She marched them briskly inside.

Draco looked down, face flushing. “Sorry, Professor.”

“Zabini stole Neville’s Remembrall, Professor,” Harry said, tripping over his words in his haste to explain.

“What did Madam Hooch say about flying without her presence?” she said.

“Not to, Professor.”

McGonagall arched an eyebrow, a few steps ahead of the boys. They went on in silence, Draco and Harry almost running to keep up with the professor. They came to a stop in front of a classroom door.

“One moment, boys,” she told them sternly, slipping into the room. They stared at each other, wide eyed, before breaking into noisy chatter.

“What do you think she’s doing in there?” Draco said panickedly.

“Do you think she’ll really expel us?” Harry asked. “I can’t go back to my aunt and uncle!”

Draco looked curiously at Harry, then stiffened as the door to the classroom opened. McGonagall was followed by a tall, burly Gryffindor, who she introduced as Wood. He smiled at them.

“Wood,” McGonagall said, her stern expression replaced by one of pure delight, “I’ve found you a Seeker, and a Chaser.”

The boy’s face lit up as though he’d just been given the moon. Harry blinked, and shot Draco a bemused look.

“Spiffing, Professor,” Wood exclaimed, talking very fast. He shook first Harry’s, then Draco’s hands. “Welcome to the team, boys. Practise starts next week, but I expect Professor McGonagall here will tell you all about that.” He gave them another brilliant smile, before saluting McGonagall and returning to his classroom, a spring in his step.

“A seeker, Professor?” Harry said. “A Chaser?”

Draco, already familiar with the Quidditch terms, said instead, “Does this mean we’re not being expelled, Professor?”

“No, Mr Weasley, you’re not being expelled.” Their teacher gave them a rare smile. “I saw your dive out there. Incredible flying - and, Potter, I don’t suppose you’ve ever been on a broom before, have you?”

“No, Professor,” Harry said, still confused.

“Incredible,” McGonagall murmured to herself, shaking her head. “Dangerous, of course,” she hastened to add, looking pointedly at them, “but incredible.”

“Erm,” Harry ventured, “Could someone please tell me what’s going on?”

“I think,” Draco said with a shy smile, “I think we’ve just joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team.” He looked at McGonagall for confirmation. She nodded.

Harry’s mouth fell open. 

* * * *

“Blimey,” said Ron, his brother having just finished relaying the afternoon’s events to him. “I’ve never heard of first years being allowed to join the team. You must be the youngest players in-”

“A century,” Harry interrupted. “McGonagall told us.”

“Blimey,” Ron said again, shaking his head. The trio headed to dinner, sitting beside Neville, who seemed to be perpetually miserable.

Fred and George suddenly appeared beside them. “Hello, lads,” they said in unison. “Oliver told us that you’ve joined the team.”

“They’re beaters,” Ron supplied.

Harry grinned at them. 

“We’ll see you-” George began.

“At training,” Fred finished. He ruffled Draco’s hair. “We’re proud of you, little brother.”

Fred and George had hardly been gone for a minute before someone else approached them - not offering congratulations, this time. Zabini was smirking, as usual, and surrounded by his dull-faced friends.

“Been expelled, then, Potter, Malfoy?” he spat, grinning vindictively.

Ron snarled. “Shove off, Zabini.”

“We won, don’t forget,” Draco said, suddenly confident in his anger. “We got the Remembrall. And it’s Weasley.”

“And no, we haven’t been expelled,” Harry said cooly. 

Zabini looked taken aback for a moment, then he leered again. “Anyway, Potter. Tonight, wizard’s duel, midnight. In the trophy room. Malfoy, you’re his second.”

“It’s Weasley,” Draco ground out through clenched teeth. “We’ll be there.

Zabini swaggered away, and Harry turned to Ron and Draco. “Erm,” he said, “what did we just agree to?”

“A wizard’s duel,” Ron said, as though it was obvious. 

“It’s a spell fight,” Draco filled in. “I’m your second, which means I’ll be there to take over if you die.”

Harry’s fork fell from his hand with a clatter. He blanched. “Sorry, what?”

“Oh, don’t worry. Neither of you are advanced enough for that. Nothing’ll happen, really.”

Harry looked both mildly offended and relieved.

“Excuse me,” a haughty voice said.

It was Hermione Granger. Ron and Draco exchanged a look.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you said-”

Ron scoffed. She glared at him, and went on. “You can’t go, Harry, Draco. You can’t! It’s awfully dangerous, and you’re sure to get caught. You’ll only end up losing house points for stupid pride.”

Harry looked at her for a moment. “I think we’ll be alright,” he said. “Stay out of it, please.”

Ron nodded. Draco gave her a sympathetic smile, but said nothing.

“Boys,” she said, exasperated, and flounced away.

* * * *

None of them slept at all that night. Draco spent the time staring unseeing at the pages of his history textbook, his mind refusing to focus. Ron put a pillow over his head and tried his hardest to rest, but his mattress seemed too hard, his pyjamas too tight, his blanket too warm. Harry watched the hours tick by til midnight on his battered watch, frantically trying to recall every spell he knew.

Eventually, the hands read 11:30, and Harry could wait no longer. He slipped out of bed and pulled aside Draco’s bed curtains. His pale face gleamed in the light of Harry’s wand, and he scrambled up. “Is it time?” he whispered. Harry nodded.

Together, they got Ron, and crept out of the dormitory to the common room. They tiptoed toward the portrait hole, nerves jangling. The room suddenly lit up, and they swivelled around. Hermione Granger stood there, furious.

“Really?” Ron muttered.

“You can’t do it, Harry! You can’t,” she said shrilly. “Think of all the points you’ll lose!”

“Watch me,” Harry said grimly. He stormed through the portrait hole, followed closely by his friends and Hermione.

“You’re being selfish!” she exclaimed. “And, you’ll be expelled!”

“Goodbye, Hermione,” Ron said, firm. He glared at her.

She sighed. “Fine. I can see I’m getting nowhere. Do whatever you w-” she broke off. She had turned back to the portrait, ready to concede defeat, but the Fat Lady had vanished. “What will I do now?” Her voice seemed to rise another decibel.

“Not our problem.”

“I’ll just have to come with you,” she said, nodding. “Yes. Then I can talk some sense into you.”

“Great. Just be quiet, we’re going to be late.” They stormed off.

At the end of the corridor, Draco stopped suddenly. “Do you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“A...snuffling. Like the sound a pig makes.”

They all paused, straining hard. “Yeah,” Ron said, “what is that?”

They began walking forward again, slow and cautious. Then Harry felt his foot connect with something solid.

“Ouch!” a voice yelped. It was met with a chorus of “Shhhhh”s. Harry lowered his lit wand.

“Neville?” Hermione said, incredulous.

“Madam Pomfrey sent me back, but I forgot the password,” he said. “Did someone kick me?”

“Never mind that, Neville. The password’s Fortuna Major, but the portrait’s empty. You’ll have to come with us.”

“Hermione!” the trio of boys reproached in unison.

She glared at them. “I’m not leaving him out here alone. Some of us are nice people.”

Ron scoffed. “Whatever. We have to go.”

“Just don’t get us caught.”

* * * * 

The trophy room was empty when they got there. Hundreds of awards lined the walls in glass cases that winked when the wandlight hit them. “Where are they?” Harry looked at his watch. “It’s past 12.”

“Maybe they’re just late?” Draco said.

“Or maybe it was a trap,” Hermione snapped, “and they just wanted you to get in trouble.”

“Surely not,” Harry said. But they waited, and they waited, and they waited some more, until it was nearly one o’clock. Hermione, arms folded, raised a scornful eyebrow.

“Don’t look at us like that,” Ron grumbled. “You fell for it too.”

“Erm, guys,” Neville said, voice quavering, “it’s Mrs Norris.”

The cat prowled in the doorway, her wide eyes gleaming. 

“Shit,” Ron said. Hermione stared at him, scandalised, before she took off running. The boys were soon on her heels.

They sprinted through corridors that all looked the same, trying desperately to find their way back. They were soon halted, though, by a cacophony of clanging and clattering.

“Just me,” Neville said, from under a toppled suit of armour. “Sorry.”

They quickly pulled him up, and continued. They rounded a corner and came face to face with a beaming spectre - Peeves. Harry groaned.

Peeves cackled. “Students out of bed, eh?”

“Please, Peeves,” Hermione said desperately, “we’re just trying to find our way back.”

He looked them over, considering. He smiled kindly for a second, and Draco’s heart leapt. Then he opened his mouth. “STUDENTS OUT OF BED! ICKLE FIRSTIES, OUT OF BED! COME AND GET THEM, FILCHIE!”

Hermione looked like she was about to cry - that, or murder someone. They took off again, their lungs and legs burning, and wrenched open the first door they saw. They slammed it shut, and stood there, chests heaving. Ron was the first to look up. He paled, and said again, “Shit.”


	11. An Update (and an apology)

Hello! I am so sorry to fans of this story, but I'm currently in the process of planning and writing a novel, so this fan fiction is indefinitely on hiatus. Endless thanks to those of you who have read and commented and followed along on Draco's journey (short as it was). I can't express my gratitude enough - you all have given me the motivation and courage to start my own writing journey. Thank you, and, again, I'm sorry.

P.S. When I do start writing this fanfic again (which will definitely happen, probably around June, if not earlier), it will be on my new account, @ softvoicesdie . I wanted a new account for a fresh start, as I'm going to rewrite DM&TNB when I eventually start writing fic again. I'll update this work again when it comes out on my new account.


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